ALL FOR THE CRAFT

Maisy Shaw

‘I simply can’t do it. I cannot write another word.’ Cas sighed, pushing the laptop away from her, looking at me with big, sulky eyes. I sighed in return, perhaps a tad bit mocking. She sulked even more.
            ‘Cas, you’ve got to do it. You are literally paying to write. University is hard, girl.’ I picked up the coffee to the side of my laptop, the ceramic handle warm with residual heat. Steam rose in wispy tendrils from the amber and white foam on top. I took a sip, winced slightly at the temperature, and placed it back down.
            ‘I don’t have any bloody inspiration. I feel like everything I write is drivel. How did the Brontës do this?!’ Cas whined. She sat arms crossed, deep frown, slumped in her seat. A twenty-one-year-old toddler.
            ‘They didn’t have laptops for a start. Pen and paper would do you good. Secondly, they had an all-consuming love and passion for their work. You have pressure and deadlines.’
            Cas groaned loudly. She sat up slightly, going from one child’s pose to another; elbows on the table, cheeks in her hands.
            ‘I just,’ she began, ‘I just don’t feel like I’m interesting or creative enough to be a writer!’
I smiled sympathetically. I knew the feeling. The paralysis of the blank page.
‘You’re always writing! And it’s always so good! Stalkers, kidnappers, murderers, anything creepy. How do you do it?’ she asked.
            I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to tell her they were true stories. I had started to create my own inspiration, see? People always say write about what you know and I had to know how to stalk in order to write about it. I had to know how to kidnap to write about it. All for the craft, the love of writing, right?
            I shrugged, sheepishly. ‘Just got a fucking weird mind, I guess.’
            She groaned again. ‘Why couldn’t I be weird? I would have endless inspo then.’
            I chuckled quietly and read over my most recent piece. The main character had just stabbed a woman. My palms tingled in memory.